Luke followed him through to the living room where Geoffrey was now poised awkwardly, halfway in a sitting position on the seldom used end of the couch. He gestured with one hand directly behind his ample backside and Luke nodded. He sighed as he sat, clearly having reached the sort of mass and girth that required noise to conduct any sort of sudden strenuous activity. His greying hair was damp with sweat that ran freely down his face. Clean shaven and pitted with acne scars, it was the only part of him that didn't scream authority and the voice that boomed out from it was a deliberate attempt to offset this notion. The expansive jacket was hastily unbuttoned in the middle with sausage fingers and the collar loosened so that his neck was not being dug into quite as badly. The tie was silk and fastened in a knot that Luke doubted he could tie if he were given years to practice yet that too was yanked loose and Geoffrey Reid seemed to slightly deflate inside his tweed suit, relaxing into the sofa. Luke wasn’t overly concerned: he could always throw that seat cushion away.
'Sorry for being so rude, I simply had to have a seat as soon as humanly possible.'
There was a wheeze to his voice and the red rising in his face and neck made Luke fully believe that he would indeed have had some sort of dramatic cardiac episode had he not sat down then and there. The breaths came deeper and slower and a handkerchief the size of a small African country had materialised in his paw as he mopped the perspiration from himself.
'Not a problem Sir.’, said Luke, ‘Make yourself at home. Would you like some water? The coffee won't be long if you'd prefer to wait for that?'
This time the manners were not quite as false. Hideous images had flooded his mind of the behemoth expiring right there and then on the sofa. It wasn't that he had suddenly become enamoured with his guest but merely the thought of the poor paramedics who would have to carry him out. Back problems like that never really go away. They linger in the background just enough to give you an uncomfortable reminder of that time you struggled down three flights with a well-dressed walrus on your gurney. Luke was a man of the people. He would not want to force that on any fictional working man.
'Coffee my good man. Coffee please. Lots of cream. Lots of sugar.'
There was a healthier sound to him now. His breathing had slowed considerably and the grim reaper had undoubtedly slunk away, almost as disappointed as the last time a flight of stairs had assaulted his portly pal. Now he was even making references. Maybe they'd get on OK after all. Luke took a moment to place it.
'Pulp Fiction? Winston Wolf, played by Harvey Keitel. Excellent film.'
The handkerchief stopped wiping and a look of confusion flashed on Geoffrey's face. Oh well, never mind. Must just be how he actually liked his coffee. Pouring a healthy mugful, he dumped in two big spoons of sugar and opened the fridge. There was no cream. In fact, the carton of milk looked as though it had seen better days. He took a sniff and grimaced before pouring it in anyway. Needs must. He brought the mug back through with his own black coffee in a black mug. Nondescript. Boring. Safe. There was nothing in his guest's manner any longer to suggest he had just crept back from the brink of oblivion. As he took the mug in his ample hand he took a large gulp and nodded approvingly.
'Excellent. Excellent.' he coughed, 'Quite excellent'.
The mug went down on the table right beside the coaster. Luke smirked. He doubted it would be picked up again. Settling carefully in the seat opposite with his mug cradled close, he eyed Geoffrey Reid through the haze of the steam. His suit was enormous and probably cost an enormous amount of money. Perfectly tailored; doubtless real tweed. Double breasted jacket and waistcoat. Timepiece? Check: - Inside pocket with chain to waistcoat. Handkerchief? Check: - Refolded in the breast pocket. Either embroidered or monogrammed. Cufflinks? Check: - They sparkled like diamonds because they probably were. His shoes were wing-tip patent leather; so shiny he probably saw himself reflected whenever he was able to see past his stomach. The whole ensemble screamed money. Not new money but wealth. It spoke of power and authority and it was once again definitely all intentional. Luke addressed him from over his mug.
'Why don't you tell me about yourself? You seem to know about me and you have me at a disadvantage there.'
Geoffrey's eyes brightened. This was obviously a subject close to his heart and Luke got the impression he was about to be buried under an avalanche of irrelevant information. He gulped down another mouthful of scalding coffee and braced himself.
'Well, where to start? As you know, my name is Geoffrey Reid. You may have heard of my work as a magistrate?'
The blank look he received did nothing to quench his enthusiasm. Seated more comfortably now, he appeared to expand even more, as if swollen by his own bluster and self-congratulation. The tone of voice implied that it was Luke that was in the wrong for having made the mistake of not knowing who he was and most certainly not the other way around. The next ten minutes were a highlight reel of a privileged life well lived. Born in England, studied at Fettes College in Edinburgh before moving on to the University. First class honours and distinctions, top of the class. The room was his echo chamber. The compliments he lavished on himself vibrated the windows and filled up the space all the way to the ceiling. A man about town. A cornerstone of society. Respected. Loved. Listened to.
The more he boasted the more animated he became. A grand sweeping gesture in the vague direction of the court accompanied a particularly detailed story of his wise judgement. A conspiratorial lean, hands braced on his thighs, eyes wide with delight; this was when he received a personal letter of congratulation from an unspecified important figure for his ongoing efforts within the judicial system. A firm slap of the knees preceded the recovery to the couch back. Mercifully, he was done. Luke took another long swallow of coffee and let the silence settle between them. It was always good to know your man but there had been no indication of why he was here or what service he expected from him. What could a man of this purported position and status need him to do that his many connections within the police and justice system could not? It was usually a woman. He eyed the hat perched on the arm rest which probably cost more than most people's first car. It might be several women.
'Well.' Luke stood with his mug and went to the kitchen for a refill. He shouted over his shoulder. 'That is all very impressive but it doesn't tell me why you're here.' He returned and retook his seat, this time folding one leg underneath him. 'Or indeed why the Major allowed you to see me without giving me the details on you or on what you wanted.'
The very suggestion that there had been anything different or untoward in the manner of their meeting was dismissed with a wave of the hand and a vague reference to how he and the Major knew each other from before. Privately or professionally was not specified. The implication seemed to be both.
'A favour. Let's just call it that.' he concluded. 'A special exception for a friend.'
This was not a sufficient explanation to Luke. He made a mental note to call the Major as soon as his settee had been relieved of its burden. All he really wanted out of Geoffrey was the reason he required his services and nothing more or less than that. Slowly, Luke was growing tired of playing the part of the audience in this dramatic monologue. His private analysis of the interaction so far was less than favourable. (1 and a ½ stars – Although interesting in sections the extent of self-indulgence and the suspension of disbelief required to fully become engrossed in this so called epic tale becomes ever more difficult as the bulky lead drags you through a quagmire of bloated and overreaching dialogue towards a tired and entirely predictable outcome. One to avoid.)
Geoffrey Reid grasped his chin gently between his thumb and forefinger and turned slightly to look out the window. He couldn't see the castle from where he sat.
'It's about my son.'
The tone had shifted. There was almost a hint of pain at the edges of this statement. The eyes returned from the window and rested firmly on Luke. This was not a man who was used to needing anything from anyone. His nature was
resisting the horrible notion that there was something in his life over which he did not have complete and utter control and his blue grey eyes told of desperation.
Luke reached from his chair for the pad and paper on the table. His empty mug sat opposite his guest's full one. He placed his bare feet on the floor across from Geoffrey's £1000 shoes. He might have 3 inches, 5 stone and a disgusting amount of money more than Luke Calvin, but at this particular moment, he was not in the driver's seat and he knew it.
‘Tell me all about it boss. We'll sort something out.'
Chapter 3
The pad was filled with notes, the sofa was empty and the flat was warming up from the sun streaming in the window. You couldn't trust the weather in Edinburgh: it had a nasty habit of changing on you without any warning. Luke sat and reread the lines he had taken down. The details were deliberately sparse but the overall message was clear. Geoffrey Reid had a son who was more the thorn in his flesh than the apple of his eye: a disappointment and an embarrassment. It was plain to see that his father thought him a failure, which was the ultimate insult to a man of success. He leeched off his father's reputation and money not realising that wealth might trickle down but respect did not. That notwithstanding, the errant son had been “off the grid” for two days now and there was no sign of him anywhere. The impression Luke had gotten was that this was not entirely unusual for him.
One thing was certain. Luke had not been his first option. Neither was he the last resort. He was a grey area in-between the law and order of the police force and the dark interactions of the serious criminal underworld. Geoffrey's nature and vocation forced him to begin his tentative enquires in the correct manner and through the proper channels, regardless of how little faith he might have had in their likely success. The Magistrate had not appeared to be a patient man and his efforts to involve the police force had been just as turbulent as Luke expected, if not more so.
When he had arrived at the police headquarters on Fettes Avenue, Geoffrey had exploded at whichever Sergeant had been in the Chief Superintendent's bad books enough to be placed in the firing line first by having to inform Magistrate Reid, straight to his face, that there was nothing further they could do. Once he had stormed into a higher officer's office the process had been repeated. His jowly face had been glistening with the sweat of fury and the doors rattled in their frames as he made his way up the ranks and through the corridors. Each subordinate was left quivering with relief when he stormed out and each superior dreading the human tsunami stalking from room to room, until he finally landed in front of the main man himself. The Chief Superintendent was a man of about 60; tall, slender and extremely serious. Even the Magistrate would normally respect him enough to make an appointment but he had gotten himself too worked up. There were no brakes on this runaway train, just as the Superintendent had anticipated. As soon as his secretary's polite protestations had been buried under a furious verbal barrage and the door nearly ripped from its hinges the Superintendent raised one hand and the big man silenced. In his other hand, he offered a scrap of paper with a handwritten phone number.
'Phone this Geoffrey. Speak to the Major. Off the record.'
The voice was a soothing balm: a yacht cutting gracefully through the bow wave of a tramp steamer. The older man raised himself to a standing position and looked down at the Magistrate from across his desk, seeing his eyes dart from the Superintendent to the paper and back again, radiating anger. The Chief had been renowned as a brutal man in his days on the beat but he was older now. He knew the merit of avoiding a head on collision and had learnt the benefits of deflection and distraction. Through years of experience, he had gradually realised that earning respect was easier without being loud, brash and burning your bridges everywhere you went. This was a lesson his intruder had staunchly refused to take. He placed a strong hand on Geoffrey's heaving shoulders and made the decision for him by clamping his bony fingers and turning the whole man towards the door and escorting him to it. Geoffrey Reid was as compliant and docile as a child now. He was calming down by degrees and felt his ire being replaced with rising shame at his behaviour. He looked one final time at the paper and spluttered slightly trying to convey an apology or thanks. The Superintendent didn't even bother to find out which.
'Anything for a friend. Now Geoffrey, I have other matters to attend to.'
There was no arguing with the polite request and he allowed himself to be escorted across the threshold. The secretary stood up with a start but the Superintendent shook his head to indicate no action was required. The Magistrate began the long walk back down the corridors to the exit and the Superintendent closed his door. Reseating himself, he could see Fettes College to the left and Broughton High School directly in front. There was only a road separating them geographically but they were streets apart in every other sense. How funny it seemed that he had gone to the High School with the rough and the ready while the Magistrate had gone with the privileged and rich. Education was clearly not the making of the man. Calm had descended over his station again and he felt at ease. He pressed the intercom and spoke.
'Karen? Take an early lunch. I'm very sorry about all that. I don't expect you back any time before 3pm OK? I'm big enough and ugly enough to field my own calls.'
Having had a reply in the affirmative he locked his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. There was no way of knowing how this would play out yet – only time would tell.
Having finished reading and rereading the notes he had made, Luke decided to call the Major. There was something entirely different about every aspect of this scenario and the Major was not a man who tolerated deviations from the norm; far less approved them personally. Throughout his sparse interactions with his most senior employer, it had been kept deliberately unclear whether he actually held that rank or not. Luke doubted it: - he was probably much higher than that. Still, just another voice on the phone and another blank canvas onto which he could project his mental impressions. It was a generally harmless pastime of his but one that he enjoyed immensely.
The mobile handset had two numbers pre-programmed into it, one for the 'office' (which was just Laura’s number) and one for the main man himself. As he pressed it and the number was dialled quicker than any human hand could manage, he had the sudden realisation that this was the first time he had actually called him rather than the other way. As it rang, he hoped he had startled him. As it rang a second time, he hoped that he was in the middle of something important. Just as it started to ring a third time it was picked up. “Three rings Major? Oh dear oh dear oh dear....” ran through his head but did not slip out of his mouth.
'Good morning Mr. Calvin. What can I do for you?'
Polite and trite. Every syllable was even and measured; his manner unruffled and crisp. The voice belonged to a man of precision and 'correctness'. Being an ex-military man himself, Luke knew how difficult it was for many to drop the manner once they were back in civilian life although the impression he got was that the Major had been born with perfect elocution and had spoken his first words with authority. Or maybe he was reading too far into it.
'Sorry to bother you Major. I've just had a friend of yours visit with my assignment.'
'Ah. The Magistrate.'
Luke wondered why all these people were referred to by their titles? Had they transcended the doubtlessly common practice of having names? How did they refer to him? Dogsbody? Cannonfodder? The mind boggled. Inwardly he bristled, but ever the true professional, he refused to allow even the slightest hint of this to enter his voice.
'Yes. The Magistrate.'
The ball had been deftly chipped back into the oppositions side of the court. It hung in the air alongside the silence. The Major was probably sat in full parade regalia. The number of medals on his chest lessened or increased depending on how charitable Luke was feeling that day. Some days, when congratulations were in order, he was a sweet old man in a suit just doing a job. Others, when there were questions
or misgivings about a job, his chest was emblazoned. When he was being as evasive and difficult as he seemed today, he didn't even polish them himself. He had a polish-boy. Probably treated him terribly: short smoke breaks and a 45-minute lunch. The monster.
'He is a man I know from before, Luke. In a difficult position which required sensitive handling.' The Major positioned himself to smash the return down the line for the win; “I knew that a man of your calibre would understand that exceptions have to be made for exceptional circumstances.'
Luke weighed the words. He was going to do the job and he was going to do the job well, as he had before and as he would in the future. However difficult the Major was being, there was nothing to be gained from either pointing it out or acting on it. Today, the Major had a waxed moustache. He wore aviator goggles on top of his flying squadron cap. His scarf streamed out behind the chair, cartoonishly suspended on the horizontal.
'Very well sir. I will keep you informed on any and all developments.'
The Major was prepared to respond but Luke had already realised that the conversation was pointless and was going to be from the start. He decided to level a parting jibe that could be interpreted as innocent; no point blatantly sticking the knife in for a reaction. The man was, after all, his employer and significantly his superior.
'Yes Sir. I will keep you informed. Through the usual and correct channels of course. Goodbye Major.'
He hung up and the line went dead. In his mind, the ball smashed into net and the Major's monocle popped out in horror and disbelief. Point; Calvin. The crowd that existed nowhere except for in his own mind went wild.
Shadow of the Castle Page 2
